Snow Bird
by Flying Feather
Summary: Roy needs the strength to keep going no matter the costs. Inspired by DC Comics, "Snowbirds Don't Fly" by Dennis O'Niel and Neal Adams.


He had promised himself this would be the last time. That he didn't need to do this before patrol. But, as the teenager nervously looked around his room, double checking that his bedroom door was securely locked, he reasoned with himself that _this _would be the last time. He just wouldn't use as much. Ease his way off of it. That would work.

It was a brilliant plan.

He wasn't a junkie. He wasn't a loser. He was just using a bit of a boost to maintain his night job, maintain his life. Nothing wrong with that right? Athletes did it, performers did it. Why would it be so different for a superhero to do it?

That was all the mental reasoning Roy Harper needed before he sat himself in his desk chair and began to roll up his sleeve.

If Green Arrow ever caught him doing this he'd probably strangle Roy's head clear off his shoulders for it. But that would imply that his guardian would _actually_ check up on his adopted son. Fat chance, especially since he was half way across the country with the League saving some city from some unknown fate. Roy hadn't really listened to Ollie on the phone hours prior. He just saw the man's absence as the perfect time to shoot up with out getting caught.

And yet, his head was glancing over his shoulder just in case someone came in.

Paranoid. He was just over-reacting. It wasn't the addiction. It was just fear. It wasn't the drug. It was just something else.

He wasn't a junkie. He wasn't a loser.

Roy popped opened the bottle of alcohol with one hand not bothering to search for the cap as it bounced off and rolled over to the corner of his desk, stopping once it collided into a picture of Roy and his mentor. That picture had been taken years ago. Before Roy became less important, before he had become a burden and attitude problem instead of a son. Roy returned his focus to the kitchen spoon he had stolen from downstairs. He poured the clear liquid on it, sterilizing it and then shaking it dry for a few seconds.

The phone rang in the background.

Seconds seems to take hours for the teenager. He should have gotten this started earlier, not when his withdraw kicked in. His hands shook and he gritted his teeth together which disrupted his concentration. He roughly scavenged across his desk for his prize, for that peace of paradise. Upon seizing the clear bag holding what he needed, Roy pulled out four tic-tac sized bits of heroin wrapped tightly with bits of balloons. Gingerly, he placed them upon the spoon and gave a sigh before reaching in and grabbing two more. He had told himself he wouldn't use as much.

He wouldn't use a much next time. Yea, next time.

He wasn't a junkie. He wasn't a loser.

Roy placed the spoon down and reached for his syringe and the glass of water he had brought in earlier. He had the process down to a quick drill. Suck up some of the water with the syringe and lightly squirt it on the spoon around his treasure. Using a lighter always made it dissolve better and faster. And luckily for him, Ollie loved to smoke cigars for those 'special occasions' and kept a collection of lighters all around the house. It only took a few moments before the flame Roy controlled caused the chunks to melt into the water. Then you just had to stir it to make sure it was alright.

Roy smiled. It was more than alright. It was heaven.

"_You have one unheard message,"_ the phone called out from his beside table. Message? Roy wasn't even aware the phone had stopped ringing, let alone that someone had left something for him. He'd check it later.

Then came the tricky part. Getting the heroin into the needle.

When Roy had first started out, this part had always thrown him for a loop. He'd often drop the spoon and spill the gold over his desk, but thankfully, it only left a faint vinegar smell which Ollie never noticed. Just like he had never noticed Roy even performing this act or even noticed Roy...

The spoon had been delicately placed on his desk, the needle laying nicely beside it, leaving Roy a chance to sterilize his finger tips. He dipped them in the cold alcohol anticipating his soon to be euphoria.

He wasn't a junkie. He wasn't a loser.

There were a few scattered cotton balls in a plastic bag behind his computer monitor and silently Roy reached for them, his head turning towards the door at the sound of something creaking outside it. He was like a deer caught in headlights, his light blue eyes wide with anxiety. He looked for a shadow spilling in from underneath the door but saw nothing. And as he fidgeted in his chair, he didn't hear anything else except the phone ringing in the background. Why had it started ringing again?

"Shut up, shut up, shut up..." Roy practically demanded returning to his work.

Angrily, he snatched the cotton balls up and pulled one from it's home. He ripped it in half and then shed a few more pieces making the single piece of cotton roughly the size of a tiny piece of gum. With precise and exquisite movements, Roy's thin and shaking fingers managed to place the bit of cotton perfectly into the liquid residing in the spoon. Slowly, the cotton began to absorb what was around it, growing like a mini sponge. This was a necessary step to avoid germs and infection, the cotton acting like a filter. A little tip Roy's dealer had taught him after his first few rounds. He had told Roy he wanted him to be safe, told him to ask if he ever needed help. Roy could say that his damned dealer granted him more attention than his own parent.

"_You have two unheard messages."_

Roy let out a crooked smile. He could barely contain his excitement as he sat enthralled by the growing cotton bit.

He grabbed the syringe and pushed the tip of it into the center of the cotton and then pulled back in the plunger. He watched with pure amusement as the heroin filtered through into the clear vial. And as it filled into the brim, the phone once again began to blare in the background, Roy chuckling to himself and pushing his tools aside, plopping his arm on his desk like a trophy.

He wasn't a junkie. He wasn't a loser.

This was by far the fastest step of this little trip. He had already chosen the spot for injection and hastily poured the remainder of the alcohol down his entire arm. There, clean and ready to go. He didn't have anymore time to waste. He placed the needle against his skin, the cold metal sending a welcoming shiver up and down his body. Roy inhaled as it pierced his pale flesh, pulling back on the plunger slightly until a bit of blood was sipped into the vial.

Good, he was in a vein.

The first time he had done this, Roy had made the mistake of not checking properly. He had injected the juice right into his skin which left a nasty and painful blister which took almost a full day before decreasing. Not to mentioned it burned like crazy. He wore a long sleeve shirt all that day, even to patrol, but luckily for him, Green Arrow hadn't even noticed the change in his partner's costume attire. Scratch that, his _sidekick._

That man would never acknowledge him as an equal. He only saw Speedy as a waste of time, as something to try and mold. And when Speedy never followed, he called him immature, called him selfish. Ollie never blamed himself. God no. It was just his loser sidekick's fault for not listening.

"_You have three unheard messages."_

He wasn't a junkie. He wasn't a loser.

Roy felt so angry, so twisted with rage. He pushed down on the plunger forcefully, a light grunt escaping his lips. All the bad thoughts of Green Arrow, of the League and even of his so called friends who had left him, vanished with in seconds of that pure euphoria swimming in his body. He stood up, his hand firmly gripping the syringe even though it was now empty.

It was like a jolt.

He yanked the needle from his arm, tossing it aside with out a care and slowly stumbled across his room to his bed. His breathing was controlled and slowed as he gave a weak smile to himself. It was good to not feel like some sort of unwanted animal. It was good to feel good. It was good to be reminded that he was still a hero, he could still bring good into this world and he didn't need his loud and opinionated mentor to tell him that. Roy could make it on his own, he had been for years. And no matter how unsuccessful Green Arrow might think he was, Roy knew better.

He wasn't a junkie. He wasn't a loser.

The phone began to ring again as Roy headed for the door, quiver over his shoulder and bow in hand, the red head allowed a wicked smile to grace his face. He grabbed an arrow from his holster. The shaky hands and nervous jitters from earlier were all but gone now as he stood tall and proud. He aimed his arrow at the phone and without a second thought, released it.

The weapon pierced through the black plastic stifling the obnoxious ring to a low and off rhythm beeping sound. Ah, the sweet feeling of satisfaction and victory. That was what heroin gave Roy. It gave him all the things Ollie refused to. It gave him the will to carry on, the rush of success and the attention that no one else would. It made him _feel _like someone, allowed him to_ be_ someone.

And he finally knew who he was. He wasn't Speedy, Green Arrow's sidekick. And he certainly wasn't Roy Harper anymore. He was something much more powerful and terrifying, someone who wouldn't be contained from his full potential.

The beeping off the phone grew to a silence followed by the broken voice of his recorder._ "Y-You h-h-ha-ave f-f-fo-o-our-r n-new-w m-m-messa..."_

The computerized voice died shortly afterward along with whatever lies were being recorded on that machine.

He wasn't a junkie. He wasn't a loser.

All he was, was late for patrol and kicking some serious tail on the streets.


End file.
